Metronome
by eliska
Summary: Suffering is the unspoken part of her profession, and that she knows all too well. Izaya/Namie. AU.


**A/N**: This is vaguely set in the 1920s but since there isn't nearly enough detail in that department to set a _definite_ time period, I apologize in advance. Also, geisha!Namie. Which I guess is not quite a thing, but still. Might or might not continue this AU, but I'll leave it a oneshot for now.

(The text in the parentheses are meant to be read normally! Just a heads-up in case it might be confusing.)

Constructive criticism is much appreciated!

* * *

There is a buzz — a sound of radio streaming through her ears from one end to the other, and it bothers her more than anything else. It reminds her of _him_ and things she does not want to know, although she exists as a part of his world her pride does not allow her to acknowledge.

Ragged fingernails (they are always done up nicely in the morning to hide whatever damage she does to them; after all, what is power and beauty without someone to look after all of your needs?) hurt slightly as she pores over her accounts. She hears that trilling laughter more often than she should, behind temple walls and street vendors, in the voices of children but baser, some poison that people would take willingly simply because they could not shake the pleasure from it.

But not her. She slips her delicate feet into lacquered _zori_ and crushes the pages underneath, lips curled, eyes distant.

* * *

She doesn't know why he seems to appear everywhere she goes

(_Ah, but that's just _your _imagination, dear, I don't care for you any more than I care for anyone else_)

With or without reason; deliveries, meetings, a rendezvous with some pretty maid here and there. or at least, that is what she sees. But she doesn't care for more than that, a slight annoyance that does not directly concern her livelihood — and she does have one, an important one, to carry on, for her dear brother

(there is an ink painting of him above her bed, that she believes will bring them closer)

Although —

The doubt clears as soon as it enters her head. She cannot imagine what it is like to be, _without,_ because she believes and that belief is what keeps her going, going, onward.

The next time she hears that song she turns on her heel and walks through the alley, where the men are no less horrid (and that is what she finds him to be; she cannot shake that feeling of _wrongness_, perhaps, even if it isn't such, it is close enough), but at least, she thinks, she gets what she asks for.

* * *

Time runs in bare feet and is faster than anything one can imagine. It is raining and she has forgotten her umbrella; her mouth moves in the shape of an expletive she would've been slapped for ten years ago, but it seems the men she entertains nowadays prefer this, instead. It makes them laugh

(drunken, mad sounds; she hates alcohol because she gets tipsy oh-so-easily, and the _things_ they say — sometimes they remind her of _him_, except much cruder and less malicious, but disgusting nonetheless)

and her smile never slips, her hands continue to pour out the next cup of sweet sake as if everything is right in the world.

* * *

The apartment is small, but lavishly furnished in a way that would suggest nobility — which has, many times, infuriated her, that she knows _nothing_ about him and yet he seems to know everything about _her_.

("They call you Yukiko, but you are Yagiri Namie, 25, living alone. You have a brother, Seiji, and your parents are deceased. You love your brother, don't you? You'd do anything for him."

She remembers very clearly the words he'd spoken upon their first meeting, and

"You're so _cold_. Does't it get _boring_, acting like this? It's no wonder then, you haven't had a _danna_ in years. But that doesn't matter, does it? As long as you have your dear, dear brother — or _just_ a picture of him over your bed, that's enough to make you happy. Am I wrong?"

She remembers. )

* * *

There is an indistinct noise of something in the room and it makes her uncomfortable; or maybe not, because everything about him tickles the back of her throat. She sits primly on her knees, watching the thin trail of smoke curl upwards from the teacup placed before her. The tea is of very good quality, judging from the smell, but she would not touch it. Not after last time —

This is a temporary thing, she tells herself, again and again, _this is a temporary thing_.

"Where is my brother?"

Something in her voice seems to make him look up, boredom shifting into an expression she knows all too well. They exchange envelopes

(She had been moderately surprised when he had agreed to this sort of transaction, but it wasn't as if)

and as she stands up to leave he tilts his head and smiles at her, catlike.

"Watch your step; you don't want to ruin another kimono, do you?"

She grits her teeth in silence and slams the door without a backwards glance, leaving his jeers behind.

(it stopped him from talking entirely.)

* * *

When they were younger she used to dance for her brother, just silly little moves she made up when neither of them had chores to do, to pass the time. He'd clap and laugh and _that_ was the most wonderful time of her youth, but that was also nearly fifteen years ago.

She'd never given it up, perhaps, because of that simple fact — that if Seiji _had_ loved seeing her dance, he would _still_ do so now, most definitely, even though she has no idea where he even is most of the time. Even though she was not talented (and very, very few are, truly) she was not clumsy, and that made all the difference; that and her knowing, _believing_, that someday this will all pay off.

When _he_ shows up at the spring festival, in the front row, she is not surprised, merely annoyed, and a little pensive. Her brother is nowhere to be seen

(she wishes that little fox he is with would just up and die already, and she'd do it herself — but it would hurt _Seiji_ and that is, beyond any doubt, something she would never risk )

among the crowd; instead there are important officials and _maiko_ in their colorful dress, people rushing in and out between shows, and a calming silence that permeates when she is onstage. She can feel his eyes bore into her back as her arms arc over her head gracefully, fluid movements that suggest countless years of practice. Behind her, a mournful wail bemoaning lost love begins; the shamisen's melancholy descends upon the crowd, and somewhere someone begins to weep.

After the performance she finds a bouquet in her private room behind the stage. There is no note, but the vivid red petals give her a sudden urge to vomit.

She orders a maid to toss it into the river. The coming rain and tide would wash it away, all of it.

* * *

Midnight comes and her eyes reflect fire; she sits on the ground in a daze while children scream and the curling smoke

( she has seen it somewhere before )

reaches into the moon, an acrid scent of burning flesh filling her nostrils. The maids — the ones who got out — hurry her away.

She closes her eyes and does not want to open them again.

* * *

The room is cramped, its walls old and cracked with brown and yellow splotches. _This is a temporary thing._

"You should be _glad_, Yukiko, that you're getting a _danna_ now. You won't have to worry about the _okiya_ — "

She gives the hairdresser a withering glance, then watches her apologize and slink out of the room. perhaps they are all laughing behind her back — it would not amaze her, given the way she had treated them over these years — but all of that matters little to her now.

("You are so _so_ fortunate")

A crack of glass; disdainful eyes look upon the shattered cup in her palm. Small trickles of blood drips down from the cuts, forming dark stains on the tatami mat below.

* * *

Why she _has_ to live with him is a mystery to outsiders;

(to better watch her, she knows this, but the thought of it makes her shudder)

most geisha don't, but most also don't have young, single _danna_ with a penchant for mental torture. Her room is towards the back; the furniture inside appears simple yet expensive. She wonders how many apartments he has under his name; he never seems to spend consecutive nights at the same one. Which is all the better for her, she thinks as she gently pours ink over the documents, lips pursed in a grim smile,

(he has an absolutely horrid habit of leaving his things in her room when she is at work, and she ends up having to clean it because he doesn't keep maids — which, she knows, is less a matter of money and more a matter of seeing her suffer. he would stand there and watch her, a half-smile on his face that never seemed to reach his eyes. When she is done he would walk away, the soft sound of laughter echoing in her ears)

because she would rather forget who he is sometimes.

("And _don't_ you think that this, at least, is a much better life than one you would've lived without me?

You should _thank_ me.")


End file.
